


Like Mom Used to Make

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Awkward Dean, Chef Benny, Chef Dean, Customer Castiel, Dean Does Something Dumb, Embarrassed Dean, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pasta is Involved, References to Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 01:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10349454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: If this were a movie, this would be the part where everything slows down building up to that one climatic event that makes or breaks the $10 graciously donated to the box office. And everyone knows that those events, those moments, can build up to either two things: an ovation-worthy success, or a failure so colossal and so detrimental, it irreversibly changes the course of the protagonist’s narrative and leaves the audience squirming in their respective seats.Guess which one the cruel, capricious author of Dean’s story decided to go with.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where this came from, but hopefully you enjoy it. :P

 

"Benny, what would you do if I chucked this noodle against the wall?"

"What in the _hell_ —?" Benny retorts, emphasizing the last word with a more Southern twang than necessary.

"Would you go all Gordon Ramsay on me?" Dean asks, lips softening like the pasta dancing in the pot beside him and turning up into a devilish smile. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Dean knows he won’t. They’ve been friends since giant reptiles ruled with tiny iron fists, and although he’s built like a machine, Benny’s since traded his rebel lifestyle for a slice of the American Dream—literally. When he’s not turning flying white saucers into breaded, buttery, yet somehow crisp perfection known as pizza, he’s baking everything from pies to pastries, and even some French dishes Dean never pronounces the names of. (Dean’s gained a few pounds since he’s been working at the pizzeria.) Which is why he simply closes his eyes and responds, “ _Why_ do ya want to chuck a noodle against the wall?"

"To test its consistency!" Dean defends, but Benny’s not moving on the whole ‘ _You’re a complete imbecile and you should be ashamed_ ’ look. "Did they teach you _anything_ in culinary school? Look, you chuck a noodle against any hard, vertical surface, and if it sticks, it's al dente. My mom taught me that.”

"Why not jus’ _taste_ it?" Benny scoffs.

“Are you insulting my mom?”

Benny returns to stretching the pizza dough in front of him with his large, pre-powered hands with a scoff, “Please. If anythin’, I feel pity for the poor woman, may she res’ in peace.”

"You have no sense of imagination,” Dean says, wiggling the noodle in front of Benny’s face.

"Oh believe me, I do," Benny says, unblinking. "As a matta’a fact, right now, I'm _imagining_ the dozen possible ways I could fire your ass."

“Benny, I’m a good shot, alright?” Dean says, gesturing to the wall in front of them that’s a good ten feet away. “Remember, I made pitcher in high school softball?”

Okay, so maybe Dean made shortstop _,_ but that had to count for something, right?

“I don’t recall, was it pink or yella? Lemonade, I mean.”

Dean sighs. It’s been a slow day, with just a few online takeout orders. The only thing keeping him awake is the steam pillowing from the big round pot, because stirring certainly isn’t helping any. Seriously, at the rate he’s going, he could have peddled from here to Kansas City. It’s a miracle someone walked in moments earlier, but he’s just using the restroom. “I’m doing it,” Dean states, using the noodle as a lasso as he lines up his shot.

The dough Benny’s rolling plops like a deflated foursquare ball onto the counter across from Dean. “Dean, if ya chuck that, I swear on my unborn children—”

That’s enough permission for Dean, so he hurdles the noodle at the wall.

If this were a movie, this would be the part where everything slows down building up to that one climatic event that makes or breaks the $10 graciously donated to the box office. And everyone knows that those events, those moments, can build up to either two things: an ovation-worthy success, or a failure so colossal and so detrimental, it irreversibly changes the course of the protagonist’s narrative and leaves the audience squirming in their respective seats.

Guess which one the cruel, capricious author of Dean’s story decided to go with.

There, standing completely still with a noodle plastered to the side of his face, is a man that puts a pizza oven to shame, because he cranks the temperature well past four-hundred degrees.

For one, he has news reporter-style chocolate brown hair—everyone who watches the news regularly knows it as that combed-over-and-to-the-side-but-not-completely-out-of-the-way look that’s just sexy enough to pull off on daytime camera. Below that are a twin set of sapphire eyes to match the tie he’s donning over a large, tan trenchcoat. And not to mention lips that are too plush to keep anyone from hanging on his every word.

Although, that happens anyway when he peels off the noodle with one of his long, slender hands, and brings it to his mouth. Dean watches on in awe as he chews on it slowly. It’s only after his Adam’s apple slides up his stubbled neck, taking the noodle with it that he nods, “Mmm, Al dente.”

Benny doubles over from laughter beside him before disappearing into the backroom, leaving Dean stiller than the meats in the back freezer. Maybe he can squeeze himself in there, too, for a few, say, hundred years or so. His pores are definitely clogged with enough artificial preservatives to keep him fresh for that long. “I am _so, so_ sorry,” Dean expresses, “I didn’t mean to-you weren’t-I didn’t—”

The man cuts him off with a deep laugh that acts as a prelude to an unexpectedly raspy voice, “It’s alright. I was actually going to order the spaghetti carbonara, believe it or not, so at least I know it’s cooked.”

Dean laughs weakly as a large splash of liquid on the burner stirs _him_ from his musings, “Shit!” he curses before flipping the dial. “Maybe a little _too_ much now.”

“Again, it’s no trouble,” the man reassures, flashing Dean a brilliant smile, “I can barely make myself a cold coffee, hence why I find myself ordering takeout.”

“Not a fan of hot coffee, huh?” Dean says, immediately cringing at his own comment.

“What can I say? I run hot.” Clearly, Dean thinks. “My name’s Castiel, by the way. But you can call me Cas.”

 _Castiel,_ no wonder. Sounds angelic. It makes sense, considering how it’s as though he, a gorgeous stranger, just appeared out of thin air. The big man upstairs is probably getting back at Dean for sticking gum in Bela Talbot’s hair in the first grade.

“Dean,” he offers, breathing into the smile that returns to his face, “but you can call me Batman, because my little brother refuses to.” Cas laughs again, and the next thing Dean knows, he’s pouring all his courage into the plastic tub he sets between them. Unfortunately, it’s packed to the brim with spaghetti and meats, so Dean fumbles a little as he adds, “I-um I know you said takeout, but hopefully you’ll be dining in with us tonight.”

Cas’s face slowly rises like dough in the oven as he replies, to both Dean’s relief and his surprise, “Sure, why not?” with big, gummy smile that, if Dean were a pizza, would melt the cheese right off of him, “You’ve made quite the first impression—I mean that in the best way, of course—and I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

“Again, I’m really sorry,” Dean amends, blushing by default, “For earlier, I mean.”

“Maybe you can make it up to me by throwing in a special,” Cas offers, leaning against the counter.

“Okay,” Dean replies, clearing his throat as he grapples for a nearby pen and pad, “yeah, I can do that. What would you like?”

“Are _you_ on the menu?”


End file.
